Voices on the Wind
by phyncke
Summary: Fingolfin's last ride, his epic battle with Morgoth and his last moments before travelling to Mandos...Betas: Khylea, Keiliss, Tux and Larian


**Voices on the Wind**

by phyncke

**Disclaimer**

I do not own these characters, they are the property of JRR Tolkien and his estate, and I have borrowed them for my own amusement and for yours I hope.

Hithlum, 456 F.A.

It was an all-consuming rage.

No one dared look upon my countenance, or into my eyes. No one could comfortably look upon the face of such rage and not feel themselves enveloped. My arandur averted his eyes as he strapped on my armor, handing me my sword Ringil, named for its icy shine. He was the one closest to me and even he could not stop me. Love alone could not hold me back and I would not be swayed from my course. That craven beast would pay for all he had done. Enough.

I rode out of the gates of Hithlum, leaving its tall stone walls far behind me. A crowd had gathered, watching me go, but I paid them no heed. I rode as though in a trance, smoothly, evenly, though my anger increased as I passed the bodies on my way to Angband, mile upon mile of tortured corpses. Flesh was torn away, limbs contorted, faces burned beyond recognition, the horror of the onslaught etched in the lifeless elven forms. Vultures circled overhead waiting to make a feast on the dead. Rochallar trotted slowly, nervously, sensing my mood and knowing that something was dreadfully wrong. He was my most trusted companion, my friend. His hooves stepped elegantly on the desolate earth, a rhythmic cadence which usually soothed me but today my body was taut and poised for attack. I scanned the blackened, barren landscape, now bereft of all forms of vegetation, having been awash in flame and fire in the heat of the sudden vile attack. There was not a shred of grass to be seen and the trees were gone, having been devoured in the intense heat of Morgoth's attack.

Hours passed, many miles we crossed and my rage did not dissipate. The body count mounted and my heart hardened into a stern resolve. I would not turn back. I thought of the possibilities if I were victorious, the great benefit to elvenkind, the light that I could bring to my people. This drove me on and I spurred my great steed into a gallop. We were within enemy territory now and the horizon was rocky and forbidding.

The desolation was absolute. I did not know how living creatures could survive in such a place. Rats scurried in front of my horse but those were the only living beings I could discern. I crested the last hill and the stark structures of Angband rose before me, its enormous black walls rising into the bleak sky, a stony testament to the wickedness within. There was smoke, and ash, and a stench so foul that it was difficult to breathe. This was what evil smelled like. Rank. The place was teeming with orcs and other vile creatures and they stared at me from the ramparts, as if they could scarce believe it. A cry rose up from behind the wall.

"Tell the beast I am here and wish to battle..."

I drew my blade and they ran to do my bidding, not daring to refuse. Long I waited and I could tell he was afraid. All was silent as Rochallar shifted in the gloom, his white coat a proud beacon in this sunless land. How could the Valar let such a thing come to pass? So many dead, so many suffering. They had been consumed in a flood of molten flame and pestilence. He would not come, I thought. The craven beast would skulk in his lair, like the coward he really was. I would have to go in there after him.

The footsteps came then, deep, thundering, ominous. My horse reared, spooked by the noise from within. The sound came closer and the ground began to shake. No one had ever seen the beast in battle. He sent his minions out to war but did not fight himself. Well, he would this day. It seemed to take hours; the underground caverns and tunnels must have been vast indeed. I dismounted and slapped Rochallar's flank, bidding him fly like the wind back to Hithlum. Were I to survive, I would find my own way back. He ran in that beautiful way he had, with fluid grace, mane like silk and hooves flying. He would be the last thing of beauty I saw in that horrible place

The gate opened, creaking as it swung and then banging against the sheer wall. There was tittering laughter from above as an audience gathered on the wall and, if anything, the stench grew worse. The ground vibrated with each rhythmic footstep and I gripped my sword in hand, focusing on the sparkling blade, not on the monstrous creature heading towards me. Nothing had prepared me for Morgoth in the flesh. There was no trace left of what had made him a Valar, a being of uncommon beauty, ethereal and full of light.

Here was a monster of total darkness, his very essence seemed to suck in what little light was around him. Armor black, hammer black, face black and teeth that gleamed with carnivorous intent. He stood many times my height, a towering hulk of a creature, gripping Grond in his right fist, a terrible weapon with sharpened spikes on its head that would pierce my armour.

"You will pay for what you have done." 

I spoke calmly, my tone masking my fear. Oh yes, be there no mistaking that, I was afraid. Anger was not the only thing I felt in those moments. Immediately after I spoke, he swung his hammer. It made a hissing sound in the air and landed at my feet rending the earth with a loud crash, fire and smoke obscuring my vision. I leapt back, and so it began. He swung and I moved, avoiding each strike as best I could. The first wound was for my father, whom he had murdered. I pulled my blade from his thigh and listened to him shriek in agony. Shouting with triumph, I smiled grimly at the cries of dismay from behind the wall. They were fearful. Victory was not assured. The ground became riddled with pits, each time a narrow miss that I had to dodge. Each swing of Grond was wreathed in flame and lightning.

The battle grew long and more difficult and against my will I began to tire though I strove to show it not. My shield was broken, my helm sundered and I was pressed down into the earth beneath his shield. Three times I struggled back to my feet, seven times did I wound him. I wounded him for my brother, for Fëanor. I wounded him for the elves who had perished to keep him at bay over long centuries. I wounded him for the light of the trees that shone no longer. I did not wound him enough. I would have had to cut him a million times to right all the wrongs he had committed. And finally I fell for the last time, stumbling into a pit created by that fearsome weapon of the Underworld, and so quick was he on me that I did not have a chance to stand up again. His foot came down upon my neck and I plunged my sword into his foot with a final desperate thrust, one last strike at him. He screamed and with a swing of his weapon that, thank the Valar, I did not feel, I was gone.

All rage left me, to be replaced by a feeling of such utter peace as I had never known while I lived. I was hovering above, looking down at my body, which was about to be defiled. The beast bent low over my broken corpse and bared its fangs, preparing to tear into my flesh.

"Wait, you will see..."

There was a gentle voice whispering to me, and I did not know who it was, but I watched as Thorondor flew through the gloom and attacked the very face of Morgoth, wounding him one last time and bearing my body off into the West. I was draped limply in the clawed feet and the great bird soared high into air. We flew over Rochallar, who was racing on his way to Hithlum as if demons were chasing him, a white blur on the dark, desolate landscape. Onward to the mountains overlooking Gondolin, where I would rest in a cairn built by my son, which would last until the shape of Arda changed with the tumults of the ages.

I could not console Turgon as he wept by my graveside. I felt the call and heard that voice again. I resisted; I knew where it would take me and was not ready. I did not feel I had earned the reward of peace. The wind whistled through the canyon, usually an eery, plaintive sound but this time it brought comfort and relief, trying to soothe my restless spirit. I heard the voices but I tried not to listen, wanting to stay here to do my duty as I saw it. So much left to be done. The war was not over. I wanted to shout to the powers to leave me be.

"Come Fingolfin...it is time..."

I thought my fëa would never be ready to rest but I had to go. I watched my son descend the mountainside and return to his hidden city, saddened and bereft. We would meet again. I was sure of that. The wind picked up and I could hear the voices of all who had gone before me, calling me home. It was time. I released my final hold on that life and let myself float. I was free.

finis

arandurking's assistant, squire  
fëasoul


End file.
